


how overdue, i get to finally dance again with you

by gaywardguide



Series: quirrellmort ficlets [2]
Category: A Very Potter Musical Series - Team StarKid
Genre: Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Crush, Unresolved Sexual Tension, edited this a shit ton as of march 21st 2018, look at these gay fools, takes place in the graveyard scene, this is basically just quirrells prom all over again only he didnt have no hot guy to save him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2018-12-20 18:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11926269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaywardguide/pseuds/gaywardguide
Summary: As the professor watched Voldemort move around in the mist, he himself stood awkwardly as the Death Eaters cavorted around him. A moment or two passed of Quirrell watching his best friend greet these complete strangers like family (some of which probably wouldn't be around to make it to Thanksgiving next year), before he dared to step forward. One step, two steps- not too close or else he'd be noticed, and he made sure to stay hidden in the crowd, but close enough to...





	1. Chapter 1

When Voldemort vaulted up over the rim of the oversized cauldron and landed on the ground, all was silent in the graveyard. Even young Harry Potter- who was magically paralyzed on the ground- kept his mouth shut. (Funny, he never did that during Quirrell's lessons.) All eyes were on the very pale, very shirtless figure standing at the center of all his followers. And Quirrell (Quirrell liked to think that he was more than just a 'follower' at this point).

He just stood there, hunched over and motionless, for ten very long and rather tense seconds. Quirrell squinted at him, though couldn't really see his features through the atmosphere-appropriate, thickened fog that was drifting through the graveyard lazily, propelled by the cool night breeze. The Death Eaters surrounding Quirrell began to murmur anxiously among themselves, yet the brunette's eyes remained fixated on Voldemort- or, more specifically, his bent and shaking legs. It had been so long, Quirrell realized, since Voldemort had last walked- did he even... remember how? Was that something one might forget after possessing the back of someone's head for a year? Quirrell felt the sudden urge to step forward and steady the man, but squashed it down with a faint blush, hyper aware of the cloaked figures surrounding him and of Voldemort's dangerous pride. He gulped.

It took a few moments, but the Dark Lord lifted his head slightly, and Quirrell wished more than anything he could see his face. Stupid fog. Getting cock-blocked by the weather, _well_ then! Quirrell didn't know why he expected anything less. Voldemort took one unsteady step forward, knee quaking with the sudden pressure. Then another. A few more testy steps and then he stood there, stance wide and legs trembling. He tilted his head, seeming to eye his arms curiously, then looked down to his body. Evidently he was pleased with what he saw, as he muttered something to himself, tone indicating he had a sly little grin on his face, a tone Quirrell had gotten to know all too well. His stomach fluttered as he wondered what the Dark Lord had been thinking. Perhaps...

Quirrell shook his head internally. _No. Don't be ridiculous. Why would he care what you think?_

The aforementioned 'he' suddenly took another step forward, still admiring his body at a distance that Quirrell envied, before- “Oh, _yeah_." He said, with feeling. "The bitch is back, and there's hell to pay!"

Quirrell knew the guy well enough to know that after an opening like that a speech was coming, and so was slightly annoyed when a bunch of Death Eaters whooped and hollered. He himself clapped politely, frowning to himself.

" _Silence_!" Voldemort snarled. Quirrell lowered his hands.  
  
Voldemort continued his little speech. "Finally... I have returned! _Triumphant_! No thanks to most of you lazy shitbags, though, sitting up in your fancy mansions not giving a flying fuck about your dear old master- but I'll get to you later..." He stepped again, less shaky this time. "I can... walk!" He laughed, sounding as though he could barely conceal his excitement. "I can cast spells! I can... I can dance! _Woohoo!_ C'mon, let's fucking _celebrate!_ "

It was as if a switch had been flipped- the formerly somber Death Eaters suddenly broke into celebration. Enthusiastic shouts and giddy laughter echoed through the foggy graveyard, and cloaked figures darted around, congratulating each other with high-fives and fist bumps. Music started up somewhere near Quirrell's left- someone must've Accio'd a boombox- and he flinched as firecrackers started going off. Bottles of butterbeer were being conjured and popped open with great flourish. Quirrell was, not to his surprise, promptly ignored during all of this. Ah. No matter. Quirrell had kind of accepted that he was an outsider wherever he went.

Some Death Eaters began to (somewhat drunkenly) bop and sway to the music, but most just mingled with uncharacteristic cheer, jabbering among themselves and chugging red Solo cups full of- wait, how on earth were they drinking with their masks on? Quirrell didn't even find himself lingering on this realization, his focus instead on, well...

What even was Voldemort to him? His master? His former roommate? His friend? His- _his friend_ , Quirrell repeated in his head as if that was an absolutely ridiculous notion. If this was a verbal conversation he certainly would have punctuated that with a self-deprecating chuckle. Friends didn't fall in love with each other. Or at least not the kind of friends Voldemort thought they were. Wizard God, he felt so miserably deceptive. Even though he'd been on the back of his head for a year, Voldemort had no idea of the thoughts Quirrell had been having. But he couldn't help what he felt.

The Dark Lord seemed to almost dance around the crowd, stepping to the sides of random Death Eaters that had gathered loosely in miniature clusters and lazily spinning away. Some of his minions he greeted with a noogie and a cackle and others with a dangerous, silent smirk as he mused over their near-cowering forms before turning on his heel and moving on. The latter, Quirrell reckoned, likely were the previously mentioned- _ahem_ \- 'shitbags' of which their disloyalty Voldemort had brushed on. No doubt they knew what was coming to them. That thought made Quirrell feel oddly gleeful.

But Quirrell didn't care about any of that. He cared about the way Voldemort moved. _Wizard God_ , it was illegal for a man who was built like _that_ \- for even though the details were obscured, that was _not_ a frail silhouette by any means- and sounded like _that_ and was just so... _Voldemort_ , to be moving with such utter grace. He'd spoken about being a dancer before, and Quirrell could tell it was true. He never stumbled, never faltered, a simply turn of the heel sent him twirling, but never out of control. He took long, confident strides as he walked, and each movement- from an arm slinging carelessly around a cloaked shoulder to a firm handshake- mesmerised Quirrell, with the strength and ease with which they exuded. Or something like that.

As the professor watched Voldemort move around in the mist, he himself stood awkwardly as the Death Eaters cavorted around him. A moment or two passed of Quirrell watching his best friend greet these complete strangers like family (some of which probably wouldn't be around to make it to Thanksgiving next year), before he dared to step forward. One step, two steps- not too close or else he'd be noticed, and he made sure to stay hidden in the crowd, but close enough to...

A-ha! The mist cleared away, and finally, Quirrell could truly see his... ~~fri~~  His  ~~cr~~  no, his...Voldemort.

Wait. He could _see_ him, Quirrell realized. This was his first time actually seeing Voldemort, _...ever_. When they first met Voldemort had basically been a ghost in an unflattering shapeless black cloak, with the hood up so you could just barely see his mouth. So, hardly enough to gather an image of him in his head. Now, grateful that the Dark Lord was preoccupied for the time being, Quirrell took the time to really look at him in a very subtle and not creepy manner.

His features, while they indeed were to a fair extent, were not nearly as exaggeratedly thin and pointed as they were in Quirrell’s imagination. The first thing Quirrell’s eyes went to was the man’s nose- or lack there-of. Instead, the area was mostly flat with but a slight bump, and had long, thin nostrils that indeed resembled that of a snake. Huh. It didn't look that bad. It actually looked kind of... cute. ~~Kissable.~~ His skin was paler than he’d imagined, too, if that were even possible- it was a pure, ghostly white, with a violet flush spread across his cheeks and similarly-colored circles around his deep-set eyes. His supernatural pallidness, combined with his razor-sharp cheekbones and chiselled jawline that cast grey shadows across his sunken skin, made him look as if he had been carved from marble. His silky platinum blonde hair was slicked back, and glowed whiter than his skin underneath the moonlight. Most surprising, however, were the man’s ~~rock-hard~~ abs and pecs, which, as Quirrell’s eyes slowly slid down to, caused him to gulp, mind flashing to the worn covers of the dirty romance novels he stashed underneath his mattress. _Wizard God_ , _look at those._ What Quirrell wouldn't do to-

Quirrell stopped that trail of thought right then with a blush. Of all the times to start thinking about... _that_... a Death Eater party in which a Child was to be Murdered in Cold Blood- capitals for Emphasis- was _not_ one of them. _Get a hold of yourself, Quirrell,_ the man scolded himself.

“On your feet, POTTER!” Quirrell was startled out of his ~~ogling~~ as he realized Voldemort had taken a break from greeting all his dumb minions to jut his wand out and cast an Imperio at the boy collapsed on the ground. “What, don’t you want to join in on the party? Might as well, I'm afraid it'll be your last one.”

Quirrell watched, grin tugging at his lips, as Voldemort  yanked the curly-haired tyke to his feet and started directing him through the air. While he didn’t consider himself a sadist, he had to admit, it was pretty funny watching the preteen flop around uselessly like a rag doll (especially in those hideous, ill-fitting robes). _But..._ Quirrell gnawed at his lip thoughtfully. Something was lacking in the display… a little flair… Voldemort _was_ the Dark Lord, after all, and of course he knew what he was doing, but how fun was just pulling the kid around? No, no, Quirrell had an... idea.

He found himself pushing forward through the crowd until he was at the center of it all with Voldemort, with Potter in-between the two. Quirrell gave no time for the social anxiety to settle and instead thought back to all the times the boy had interrupted class to talk with and distract his friends, not done his homework, failed the simplest of tests, arrived late with absolutely no excuse... He thought about all of that for no more than two seconds before a wave of magic shot down his arm and filled his wand, clutching his bones and vibrating with satisfying, white-hot power. His hand tingled with the rush, with the fearful amount he had conjured in such a short amount of time. It had never come like _that_ before, so violently and concentrated in one area. Maybe Voldemort was rubbing off on him.

Death was at his fingertips. He smiled. Quirrell wasn't the brightest professor at Hogwarts for nothing.

“Let’s try his arms!” he suggested, raising his voice slightly so Voldemort could hear him, and, with a great precision that came with ease to the talented wizard, sent the boy's arms windmilling through the air. His eyes focused on Harry. Only Harry. He didn't know if he could stand looking at Voldemort right now. “And then a twirl…” Tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration, Quirrell gestured slightly with his hand- okay, yeah, maybe he was showing off a _tiny bit_ \- before watching in unfiltered glee as the boy spun around, nearly a blur. This was kind of.. fun. It was a great stress relief, too. He should do this more often. With Voldemort. Especially with Voldemort. Though his presence wasn't really relieving Quirrell's stress right now.

Speak of the devil, Voldemort tilted his head back and laughed in his usual raspy cackle, though his raised eyebrows and genuine smile showed that he was impressed. His first acknowledgement of Quirrell's existence tonight. Quirrell felt an odd feeling bloom in his chest, and he decided that he liked pleasing Voldemort very much, liked surprising him and making him proud. ~~He also decided not to examine that further.~~ “Excellent, Quirrell, excellent! Man, I didn’t think you had it in you.” Then, with a nonchalant flick of his wand, Harry Potter was flung aside so there was now nothing between the two very platonic manfriend buddies. Cocking an eyebrow (a gesture which Quirrell found unreasonably attractive) Voldemort sauntered over to Quirrell, slowly but surely. Still deliberate, still graceful, his quick recovery still- _oh Wizard God look at those thighs. Wait, what was I thinking? Oh. Yes. You just got your legs back how are you so good at this you should have fallen at least once by now. Now back to thighs. Thighs. Oh wow. Please stop walking at once, sir, that is_ very _unfair of you. Or at least put some proper pants on. If any fit._

~~(Quirrell tried very hard not to look at what was so very close to those delicious thighs as well. Wizard God, he needed to get 'laid', as Voldemort put it. This was ridiculous.)~~

“C’mooon, let’s dance! Celebrate!” Voldemort's voice barely filtered through the music, which Quirrell offhandedly recognised as some upbeat wizard rock band he'd never really gotten into, but had heard a fair amount of his students blasting themselves. He held out his hand with a flourish, a wicked grin forming on his face that made the brunette's stomach flutter. He wasn't even annoyed by Voldemort's tone, which he had heard many times in the voices of people at parties (the few he'd attended/gotten dragged into, anyways) trying to get him to come out of his shell because for some reason they were personally affected by his introvertedness. He knew Voldemort was doing this because he cared, which was a thought that Quirrell found so ridiculously sweet he felt a pang in his chest. Voldemort cared enough to check up on him. It wasn't requited love, but it was close enough.

Quirrell gnawed at his lip, feeling a bead of sweat forming on his temple. "Ah, I don't know, Voldemort..." He glanced around nervously at the Death Eaters surrounding them, before redirecting his gaze to his feet, hoping Voldemort hadn't noticed the anxiety in his eyes.

Evidently, he had.

" _Hey_." Quirrell almost flinched as he felt the man's other hand on his shoulder, though his tone was soft and not chiding or taunting as he had sort of expected. The other came to rest hesitantly, far too hesitant for the Dark Lord, on Quirrell's hip, large and practically engulfing it. Quirrell couldn't remember the last time he had been deliberately touched, all innuendos aside. And he had never been touched by Voldemort. Voldemort was touching him. Voldemort's face was right there. His _chest_ was right there. Wizard God help him, he was a mess.

As he tilted his head up, his neck ached with tension as if he hadn't moved those muscles in years. He hated how wide his eyes were, he hated how weak he probably looked. "Don't pay attention to those guys, man! They're not thinking about anyone but themselves. Also, they're probably all drunk off their asses already." Voldemort grumbled, before his face relaxed again. "Look, you'll fit right in. Whaddaya say?"

Quirrell resisted the urge to point out how wrong that second-to-last statement was- with his ill-fitting white button-up shirt and red tie, he knew he stood out like a sore thumb upon all the masked, cloaked, shadowy figures around him.

Still, when he looked into Voldemort's eyes- cliche at it sounded- he couldn't help but forget about the Death Eaters, and the graveyard, and Whatshisface Potter. Everything kind of... disappeared into the mist, and he was in a world of just him and Voldemort. Voldemort with the wicked cheekbones and devilish smile, but also, he noticed, the pretty eyes. Voldemort with eyes so grey-blue they looked violet, that reminded him of a storm on horizon, that were looking at him with a strange sort of emotion Quirrell had never seen- a bit of nervousness, and a bit of something else. Whatever it was, it made Quirrell feel as if butterflies had apparated into his stomach.

Quirrell decided in that moment that he wanted to stay in this world for as long as possible.

Calming his nerves, Quirrell smiled at Voldemort. "I say... this is far overdue." His clasped the pale man's hand.


	2. even i never thought this would get updated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which voldemort is a gay fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my procrastination for updating woman haters and pta!voldemort got so deep i just updated this
> 
> also i got a [listography](http://listography.com/gaywardguide) that i literally just made for myself because i am incapable of keeping track of. anything so check that out if u want okay deuces
> 
> also i edited the first chapter a shit ton so check that out As Well if u want 

Voldemort had dreamed about this moment for so long, yet still he wasn't prepared.

First of all, the feeling was... weird. Incredibly weird. There was some familiarity to it, maybe, like his legs. He remembered them because they were strong. Not right now, maybe, but those felt like His. His shoulders felt off, though, like they were too big. Or too small. Too something, too different. Were they too high on his body? Those weren't his shoulders, were they? They felt weird. Everything felt weird. The inside of his skin felt numb. From what he remembered the inside of his skin wasn't supposed to be feeling anything. Was numb a feeling? Should he be that conscious of his elbows? Wait, those are elbows, right? There was muchness and numbness, like part of his body had become so overwhelmed it had shut down. There was also a strange wrongness, like he was a puzzle piece trying to fit into a spot that he was a little too big for. Or small for. He didn't know anymore. It was as if he was suddenly able to see out the back of his head- ha! No pun intended. He wants to laugh out loud at that, not caring that it might come out a bit hysterical, but his jaw feels both tight and unhinged and maybe he should just try to look as evil and brooding and pensive as possible and not like he's having a fucking panic attack over his elbows.

Breathing deeply, which felt wrong too, he stood there, adjusting, like he was settling back into his skin. He was vaguely familiar that he was hunched over and probably standing really awkwardly. He was also aware that his Death Eaters were gawking. He didn't fucking care. Let those idiots watch. Let them get a taste of true commitment and sacrifice. He knew for a fact most of those asshats didn't even bother looking for him after he lost his body. Most of them definitely wouldn't do what his Severus had done, chop off a hand. Probably wouldn't even trim a fingernail. Maybe seeing their lord come back, really come back, would finally make it sink in. Hard to be intimidated by just a face... But now this face had legs. This face could run. Maybe. 

Voldemort's first thought that wasn't marvelling at how fucking weird this felt was: _is Quirrell okay?_ His gut reaction to that was disgust, and then he wondered if his face contorted in disgust, wondered what his face was doing right now, and then he pushed that ugly feeling away. Ugh, just feeling that feeling made him disgusted with himself, which was a pretty recent feeling that he'd only started feeling a lot in the past year.

It's okay, he told himself. You're allowed to care about him. He's your best friend. He helped you get this far.

Yes. Best friend. That's what Quirrell was to him. That's what Quirrell said they were, so it must be true, right? Voldemort never even had a normal friend before. He knew nothing about best friendships, but this was probably what they felt like. Obviously you're going to find your friends attractive if they're attractive.

Voldemort, he thought, really could use a best friend right now. A best friend with some working arms, maybe. Who could maybe give him a hand. But he didn't even know where Quirrell was, and he sure wasn't about to display a sign of weakness in front of his already-disloyal minions.

So, Voldemort breathed in and out. In and out. In and out. Then, neck aching, lifted his head.

Okay. Third thought.... that was a lot of fog. Or mist. Whatever. Either way, kind of hard to see. Not too bad, Voldemort supposed, seeing as how he probably looked positively demented right now, and not a good way. ~~But also not very ideal Squirrel watching conditions.~~

Startlingly, it took scarcely a thought before Voldemort felt his leg move. He felt his knee shaking, but had been out of his body so long he didn't really know if he should be alarmed by that. Automatically he took another step, then another, and with each one he felt things sort of slide into place, like hopping up in down in a pair of skinny jeans you're trying to tug up your legs. ~~Not that Voldemort ever had that experience.~~

 ~~~~Once he felt about as comfortable, as There as he was probably going to get, he stopped. _Okay, okay,_ he told himself. _Now... to check out the goods._ He glanced down to his arms. _Yep, biceps still popping._ Then, he peeked at his abdomen, just to see if- _yes! Abs and pecs, check._ He felt his lips curl into a smirk.  "Oh, I can't _wait_ for Squirrel to get a load of this." Voldemort muttered. He was already beginning to imagine the look on his little Squirrel's face once he got a good, long, hard look at those bad boys. He'd probably bite his lip all embarrassed and fidget with his pretty little hands and try and fail not to look, with cute blush spreading over his face, too, the features of which Voldemort vaguely remembered ~~but not nearly enough to satisfy him~~. Not that Voldemort thought that Quirrell would be particularly flustered by Voldemort, of all people, of course! Nobody was immune to his rockin' bod, that was all, and he'd seen how his friend acted around buff dudes at the Hog's Head that one time, he was tripping over his words he was so jealous of that one blonde guy. Which was understandable, since as far as he knew Quirrell was kind of a twig. Not in a bad way! It was probably ~~cute~~   ~~tolerable~~ the ladies probably were into it. Yeah, Quirrell was super straight, so he probably wouldn't even be that effected. But still. A little. Because, you know. _Them abs_. And it would be cute. Not like, in a lovey dovey way, but like in a little baby squirrel way.

Mind still on the idea of managing to fluster Quirrell with just his appearance (fluster with jealousy, of course. And maybe a little bit of, like, the other kind, if only because Voldemort's pecs did kind of transcend sexuality), Voldemort took another, final step forward. "Oh, yeah." Voldemort grinned, already preparing an impromptu speech in his head. " _The bitch is back, and there's hell to pay!_ " Fuck yeah, that sounded so cool. Great opener, Voldemort. Thank you, Voldemort.

Evidently it sounded a bit too cool, as his dimwitted slaves seemed to think that was it and started clapping with their big stupid hands. Voldemort registered a unique figure tucked into the crowd, with a white top with a stripe of red that looked like a tie or something, and black pants. He felt his heart soar. Holy shit, that was Quirrell!

 _Ahem._ He meant, _hm._ Quirrell was there. He was okay.

Cool.

Couldn't really see him though, but cool. Not like he cared. Or wanted to. 

Voldemort had more pressing matters to take care of. " _Silence_!" He snarled, and was pleased when they all quieted. Good, at least they still had some goddamn respect for him.

Voldemort continued, still rather annoyed. "Finally... I have returned!  _Triumphant_!" He fixated certain members of the crowd with a dangerous glint in his eyes for the following sentence, and was pleased when he heard some gulps in the silence. "No thanks to most of you lazy shitbags, though, sitting up in your fancy mansions not giving a flying fuck about your dear old master- but I'll get to you later..." He stepped forward again giddily. "I can... walk! Haha! I can cast spells! I can... I can dance!  _Woohoo!_  C'mon, let's fucking  _celebrate!_ "

* * *

Voldemort knew he should go start acting like the Dark Lord again and check in on all his little slaves, but something was nagging him. It had been a year since he'd last seen Quirrell, and even then it was the middle of the night and he didn't even have a body. He remembered... brown hair, maybe? For some reason his eyes had struck him as intelligent at the time, even though, if memory served him correctly, they were kind of crying and also looked rather sleep-deprived. He was wearing a sweater, too. But that wasn't enough. It wasn't unreasonable to want to see your bro's face, right?

So, Voldemort wedged himself in a clump of Death Eaters doing shots, ignoring their cheery/desperate greetings. Crossing his arms, he cocked his head and took another long stride forward, and his eyes pierced the fog.

It was only half of a face, but Voldemort fucking took it, because it was, in fact, a cute face. Or at least it would be if Lord Voldemort used a word like 'cute'. The face was currently focused on night sky, probably looking for constellations because he probably knew all about that shit, so Voldemort took the time to greedily rejog his memory.

His hair sure was brown, but what struck Voldemort was how soft it looked. Like downy feathers or something. Voldemort almost retched at that comparison, before reminding himself that it was cool, Quirrell was his best friend. ~~For now.~~ His skin was soft, too, soft and pale and clear and pretty, like, uh, the moon or something. Minus the craters. Unless the craters were his eyes and mouth and nostrils, then yeah, he was a moon with craters. Cute craters, because his eyes were cute and really did look intelligent. Which was odd, because they were just this plain dark brown- a really pretty plain dark brown, though, Voldemort thought, all warm and chocolately and comforting, the ladies probably got lost in those- but they just had this... look. Like people had told Voldemort his eyes looked dangerous, Quirrell's were thoughtful. Wise, maybe. Nothing wrong with complimenting a dude friend on his wise eyes, right? Not that Voldemort was actually going to compliment Quirrell. Ever. Or that Quirrell was ever going to talk to him afte ~~SHUT UP DON'T THINK ABOUT IT DON'T THINK ABOUT IT DON'T THINK ABOUT IT DON'T THI~~ and he had this nose that did this weird archy thing, and it was kind of big but hey, enough nose for the both of them. ~~Voldemort tried not to think about what he meant by that.~~ And his lips- oh Wizard God. If that dude ever opened up a kissing booth it'd be sold out in seconds from all the women lining up to buy tickets. Not to be weird, because Voldemort was a fellow lady-smoocher himself, but they were, like... plump. And pink. Did he bite them? Yeah, probably, probably chewed on them all the time. Man, that must be torture for the gals. Soft too. Then Voldemort took a gander at his legs, and decided that he definitely didn't understand how Quirrell had been single his whole life. They were so... _long_. That was illegal. Because the girls probably were so distracted by them, of course. Girls probably imagined them around their hips or necks or something, or whatever girls think about. His thighs were probably pretty cute, because the lady chicks really dug cute thighs. Cute teeny squishy soft bitable thighs for those thigh-bitin' ladies. He couldn't see them, of course, because of those ~~stupid~~ pants, but he could imagine them. Not imagining them for himself, of course! For the women who would date Quirrell. ~~...in Azkaban.~~ And he was wearing a tie, which was a pretty attractive thing too, for the ladies who enjoy grabbing ties, as Voldemort does- for ladies wearing ties, of course, and also ladies who enjoy tying ties, but not to collars, that's for sure. Like Voldemort. But to ladies. 

Yes, Voldemort decided, his best friend was indeed... alright looking. He was proud of him. _Good job, Squirrel! Good... good genes. Good tie. Not good shirt, that looks three sizes too big, but other than that. You done good._ Voldemort was happy that his bro wasn't ugly and didn't totally scare off the ladies. Imagine how that would make Voldemort look to his minions!

* * *

 After roaming around greeting some of the Death Eaters, relishing in his newfound freedom and trying to sound interested in whatever the fuck they were talking about, he decided that he'd had enough. He was here for a reason, and that reason was currently lying on the ground like a useless, bored little lump. And Voldemort simply couldn't have that.

 Voldemort pulled his wand out of his waistband and approached the little brat, whose eyes widened in fear. _Heh. Still got it_. He pointed it at him lazily, bending down a bit and leaning in close to his chubby little face. "On your feet, POTTER! _Imperio_!" Potter's eyes widened even more, and he started making nervous noises in the back of his throat, unable to move his mouth. It was like music to Voldemort's ears. "What, don't you want to join in on the fun?" Voldemort sneered, well aware of all the eyes on him. "Might as well, I'm afraid it'll be your last one." And with that he whipped his wand up into the air, Potter immediately being pulled along like an annoying little puppet. He laughed- a most evil cackle if he did say so himself- and began waving his wand around carelessly, watching the kid flop around limply. The living embodiment of his failures and weaknesses, at his complete and utter mercy in front of his minions- _Wizard God_ , could this get more perfect?

Then, Quirrell appeared through the crowd, standing on the other side of Potter, who was suspended in the air, and Voldemort- for once having an admittedly sappy thought without feeling the urge to retch or slap himself afterwards- decided that it just did.

Quirrell had his own wand out, his ready grasp a contrast to his sweet, sweet smile. "Let's try his arms!" He offered, and not even two seconds after Potter's arms were sent careened in their sockets, spinning around and around. Holy shit, his little Squirrel was... was... _powerful_. Like, that was quick. _Crazy_ quick, for a non-Death Eater. And powerful. Crazy powerful. Wow, if even Voldemort was getting flustered by that, the chicks really must be losing their minds! Wherever they were. He had girl Death Eaters besides Bella, right? Yeah, probably. 

"And then a twirl..." Voldemort watched dumbly as Quirrell did this absolutely fucking adorable thing with his cute little pink tongue and neglected his wand, lifting his hand. _No way._ He waved it a little bit, and it was like he'd pushed Potter like a top. The kid was sent spinning, arms still waving around, his body almost a blur. _Holy SHIT._ Voldemort felt a sudden pang in his chest, a sudden longing for a world where he and Quirrell could do this forever- he could be one of his Death Eaters, maybe, and they could run around the country terrorising muggles and showing off and seeing what his ~~boy~~ Squirrel could really do. ~~A world where this didn't have to end.~~

~~(It doesn't have to, if you don't think about it.)~~

Voldemort pushed that thought aside, and admired his friend. His little Squirrel really was something, he thought, as he laughed, head tilting back. He appraised Quirrell with what was meant to be a smirk but had, much to his annoyance, ended up as a weirdly open smile, with two eyebrows raised instead of one, which he didn't think he'd ever done before. _Dumb friendship feelings._ "Excellent, Quirrell, excellent! Man, I really didn't think you had it in you." He saw a bit of a flush stain Quirrell's cheeks, saw pride flash in his soft eyes and he decided, then, that if he were to not think about ~~The Thing That's Going To Happen That Will Not Be Named~~ , he's going to go all the way. He decides that maybe if he does this one last thing maybe Quirrell won't hate him so much. He decides that he's payed enough attention to that arrogant brat for now, more than he's worth, and he decides that he just really fucking wants to dance with his Quirrell. 

And so, eyeing the adorably-blushing boy intently, Voldemort flings the toddler aside, barely registering him landing in the grass somewhere, and strides forward. He doesn't miss the way Quirrell's eyes linger on his abs and thighs, and doesn't miss the way he himself feels half-proud, half-smug, half-... _something else_ , at this. 

_Hm._

"C'moon, let's dance! Celebrate!" Voldemort said in the most cheery, coaxing voice he could manage. He didn't know why. He didn't try hard at many things that weren't world-domination related, much less things for other people. He held out his hand and grinned in a very cool and at ease way, hoping that Quirrell didn't notice the sweat that had suddenly appeared on it, hoping that the Death Eaters had taken to minding their own business and weren't watching.

Quirrell gnawed his plump lip, rolling it in-between his teeth, and Voldemort may have examined how that made him feel as if he'd seen a really hot chick do the exact same thing, if not for what he said next. "Ah, I don't know, Voldemort..." The anxiety in his voice and in his eyes and on his face was too much for Voldemort, who decided that he maybe this best friend thing wasn't such a good idea if you cared _this much_.

" _Hey_." Voldemort tried to speak in his softest voice, yet Quirrell still tensed up. Voldemort put his hand on his shoulder in attempt to relax him, and was weirdly distracted by how warm he felt through his shirt. Without thinking, his hand moved towards Quirrell's hip, and it froze. Then, for reasons he couldn't figure out, he continued, hand tense as it brushed against Quirrell's hip. Quirrell's tiny little hip. Quirrell's tiny little warm hip.

Then, Quirrell looked up at him with this absolutely vulnerable look on his face, lips swollen and eyes wide and dark and desperate and warm and chocolatey, and Voldemort couldn't look away. He felt almost as lost as he did when he first got his body back, and he wasn't sure if he was still in it at that moment. He felt a tugging in a gut. _You can't just look at people like that, Squirrel,_ Voldemort wanted to say, _you can't just fucking look at people like that with your face all like that._

Stupid moon boy. _'Single all my life' my ass._ Stupid moon boy making him feel weak with his stupid trusting face. ~~If only he knew.~~

Voldemort realises he should probably say something, and so he does, hoping Quirrell doesn't notice how high his voice has gotten. "Don't pay attention to those guys, man! They're not thinking about anyone but themselves. Also, they're probably all drunk off their asses already. Look, you'll fit right in. Whaddaya say?"

Quirrell looks into his eyes again- like, _really_ into his eyes, all deep and shit- and Voldemort's breath hitches in his throat. Someone really needs to tell this boy that he doesn't know his own strength before a lady Death Eater jumps him or something. It's a good thing Voldemort has Bella, who's coming soon.

_Yeah. Bella._

Voldemort's hand leaves Quirrell's hip, and he holds it in the air awkwardly.

_Bella's coming, right? She's late._

Voldemort had dreamed about this moment for so long, yet he still wasn't prepared. For Quirrell's pretty brown eyes staring up at him expectantly, for his hand warm in Voldemort's, for his soft but eager smile as he says, "I say... this is far overdue," before Voldemort spins him out of orbit, brings him against his pounding heart and then out again with an unconscious grin. His Squirrel laughs wondrously.

Stupid moon boy.

Stupid Azkaban.

Stupid best-friendship feelings.


End file.
